((WOW! *mind is boggled at reviews* Sorry for the loooong time without any update...I've been madly crazily incredibly busy with Revolutions and West Side Story that I'm in and all this other stuff. But. . . I'll try to keep it going for all of you!))

As concert band started, it was quite uneventful. I would come in every day, talk to Iris a bit, then we'd play a song here and there. The Christmas songs were really easy. . .in fact, I could play them by the second week, and I was surprised. A few of the other songs were more difficult, and I found that I liked these songs. . . they provided me with a challenge that I hadn't had in a long time.

I went into my first lesson the first time they started kind of cautiously. I remembered what lessons were like with Mr. Jameson, and was worried that it would be like that all over again. I was surprised to find that the person I had for lessons was Mr. P, and I knew him already from marching band. But I told myself not to let that mean anything, because Mr. Jameson was in marching band and that didn't change anything.

"Hello there, Kathryn," Mr. P said when I came in, rather apprehensively. "First lesson, hmm?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Who'd you have for band last year?" He asked as I got my oboe out of the instrument closet and sat down, very lightly and shyly.

"Mr. Jameson," I told him.

"Ah." Mr. P nodded. "What did you think of him? Answer me honestly."

Honestly? You want my honest opinion? No problem. "I thought that he couldn't tell an oboe from a flute, Mr. P." I said. "And that his choice of music was horrible, and he lacked discipline and incentive for his band, and in fact, I almost quit band because of him. I don't even think he knew what an oboe was, except he had one in his band and it sat next to the flutes." Yeah, that was the honest truth, I had to give it to him.

But surprisingly, I saw a small smile form on Mr. P's face. Mr. P was the kind of person who had really funny facial expressions. When he looked sad, he looked like a puppy after you yelled at it for chewing on your slippers and it walked away with its tail between its legs. When he was happy, he looked like a happy puppy. We in marching band decided that if Mr. P was any animal (because almost everyone looks like an animal of some kind), he was a puppy, and a pug puppy to be specific. His expressions were hilarious. So when he smirked, I couldn't help but smile, because that's just the way Mr. P is.

"Yeah," Mr. P said. "We have Mr. I for marching band this year instead, but you already know that. Alright, so let's hear what you can do. Play a few scales for me." He dictated the scales for me to play and I played them all fine. Then we went over some band music, and I had a little trouble with the other band director's songs and we went over that, too.

When I left the lesson that day, I realized that I was actually feeling this weird happiness. It was kind of like the happiness I got after seeing "Phantom of the Opera", only I wasn't grinning stupidly and randomly bursting into song. But that weird happiness was there, and I had no idea why. I'd barely played my oboe with any feeling for the past few years, so why would this be any different? It was just a random lesson, anyway.

Yeah. Just a random lesson.

* * *

As the first few weeks of concert band progressed, things went from boringly average to absolutely smashing. Amazing victories in marching band made my heart soar; we were state champions this year. I remember walking into band that day and all the marching band people were jumping around hugging each other, and me, Iris, and this other piccolo girl Sharon were shrieking about how we won state championships. Mr. P didn't even bother to try and control a band room full of happy marching band people that day.

But things were very happy. The more I played in band, the more I liked it. The trumpet players behind me didn't give a flying Valjean (all Les Mis fans please pardon the expression) about my reeds, they were too busy in their own section, these concert band trumpets, and reveling in the spotlight that they still had. But the important thing was, they left me alone.

And I played, and when I played it was different. I got music that was actually for oboe, Mr. P would say "alright, flutes, clarinets, and oboe at measure 11" and things like that, and I was actually not pushed to the side anymore. I had distinct parts that I played with the flutes that could be heard. And every week I'd go for a lesson with Mr. P and those were great. He'd encourage me and we'd do the music and I was actually understanding it and liking it.

Mr. P thought I was good. He told me that I was a very good oboe player, one of the better ones, and he really thought I had talent in this area. This was the first time someone told me this since Mrs. B back in elementary school! It was thrilling and uplifting.

And in those few weeks when I was at concert band, mixed with the joys of marching band, the praises of Mr. P, and the music where I actually played (and my mad Phantom of the Opera obsession). . . well, I believe that I had gotten it back. My love for music seemed to hit me like the colorguard flags I spun during marching band. For so long I had lost that love of music I had once, but now I had gotten it back.

And in those glorious days before the Christmas concert, I was happy, because I had gotten back what I had lost, and I have loved once again.